


the four who existed.

by houmei



Category: Todd Allison & the Petunia Violet
Genre: Gen, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houmei/pseuds/houmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories told from a distant view, an observation of four lovers. Implied sexual content. this is weird i wrote way too much and wrote cyril too seriously. bye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the four who existed.

**I.** Cyril spent some time in the outskirts of Cuba, specifically near Guantanamo when the refugees were just beginning to own their own weaponry and their own boats. He was there to help export supplies, as a 'favor" to one very wealthy local agricultural friend and a few other of his friends. He only spent a week in those balmy trees but during that time he had managed to taste new cigars, cut away old ties of sea and wave, and meet the wealthy friend's cousin.

She was a perfect lady with an ample bust and Cyril was eager to have her somewhere within reach. Not preferably in an outhouse near camp but given the circumstances- inevitable.

"I was teased in school." She pops open the flaps of his pants as one who is not practiced, but well versed. "From boys and girls. I couldn't hide them, you know? I had to grow up quickly. " Her shirt slides down to her stomach and her breast is weighty on him.

"They were jealous," Cyril feels the outline of something digging into his back but doesn't want to seem as though he doesn't want this, so he slides down more. "Well, the girls at least. They're right damn perfect, angel."

She is not abated. "Are you going to tell me you were teased for this?" Her warm skin envelops him and he'd rather lie. "Sure. Guys get jealous too- _yyeah_ \- it's a _curse_."

"Men aren't teased for how big this is. They are rewarded." Despite her solemnity, she rewards him.

 

 **II.** Some of the women Cyril has known have always been obsessed with something. It's a funny little trait he finds no end in fascination with and he recalls the one who had the most interesting obsession out of them all.

"Do you like this one? Or this?" She removes the fiery red wig from her smooth head and replaces it with a bouncy bob of marigold yellow. "I only use this one for travel. The men in Paris always think it's cute." Cyril feels like he should be more misplaced in this ostentatious room cramped to the brim with wigs but he finds himself blotted out very nicely. He's never thought himself plain until now, and finds a little comfort in it. "How about the wavy one behind you? The dark pink one, yeah."

"This one is named Zoé." She turns back to her first love (the mirror) and makes her adjustments, pins her wig in. "She's very fun, I like it."

"I was thinking 'innocent'." He badly mimics her accent and moves to stand behind her. His thumbs dig into her shoulder blades. "Have you ever thought about going out bald?"

"I removed my hair so I could have an entire collection of them." Zoé is in front of the mirror now, batting thick lashes at him and flashing her throat nicely. "That would defeat the purpose of everything I've worked for."

"Collecting wigs?"

"Collection identities. Collecting myself."

Zoé takes him to bed.

 

 **III.** Cyril returns to Australia from a long winded job and finds a young woman in his trail, but he doesn't recall sighting her out or reciting a lovestruck proclamation to a girl he left behind here. She's new, but she's interested. "You live around here. I've seen you. I'd only like to stay the week..."

Everything in him suggests this is something he should be more careful about, but he's tired and he guides her home and sleeps for many hours. She's still there when he wakes up and has been taking advantage of the kitchen. Judging by the smell of honey glazed ham and eggs, he's not about to protest.

She stays a little longer than a week and tells him her story. Her name is Lily- that's the name she gave herself. She was kicked out of her house by her controlling father (Cyril thinks this is all recited) and had been roaming Victoria for several months. She was held up in a boarding house for young "troubled" women and snuck out with a friend. They both split up prior to her stay in Melbourne, and she doesn't feel optimistic about meeting her again. "She was so violent. Always getting into fights. I thought I'd be safer away from her, but I miss her." Cyril watches her stroke a tattoo hidden beneath her shirt, under her clavicle. From this angle he can't tell what it is.

"You won't find her here." He reminds her and pours his drink. He flinches and scowls. "Keep looking. You'll see."

"...Your arm?" She rises. "You have bad bruises here. Is there anything I can do?" He has no hope of swatting her away when she inspects his forearm and touches the blue reef of veins under his skin. Cyril just turns away. "No, no- it's fine."

Now that she's closer he can see the flecks of moles and spots on her skin, especially on her neck where her dark hair hides it. Well, he won't complain. "Actually..."

For three days they eat and sleep together, and on the fourth morning he wakes up alone and finds his belt and boots gone. Some cash he had lying around is also gone.

There is a note: _She was here._ And a pretty picture of a flower (a lily).

 

 **IV.** He dated a violinist, a beautiful gal of very few words. She was part of a moving band that stayed in theaters for weeks at a time before moving on. She did things in bed that would make most thugs squirm in their seats. He was fortunate enough to be susceptible to all her talents, even more so to win her brief affections. She kept him in her apartment for as long as he wished to be kept, and showed to him every twist of leg or arm or dip of her mouth. She was hungry like he was and volatile when she wished to be. Some days they barely saw sunlight.

On their last day Cyril caught her playing her violin in front of the window, naked. He thought of reaching for her but realized she had placed herself in an odd sort of trance, with her body swaying along to the heights of her strings, and bending low when she pulled herself down. She stayed like that for a few hours and when Cyril told her he was going to work, she stopped and stared serenely at him.

Cyril doesn't think he could explain it, despite claiming he knows when he recalls the story later. But somehow he knows what she says. "Of course I'll come back. Just keep playing your song, sweetheart. I'll hear it."

The sound of it follows him to the tram station, downtown, into the bar, and across the city. He hears it in his sleep. Some nights he thinks he hears it again and remembers the collection of heat in him that makes him dark and dangerous.

 

Many years later he stops hearing it, and forgets where it came from.


End file.
